Time, it seems, is moving in strange ways for many of us. A colleague recently said, “mourning, reckoning and activism all seem to require different speeds,” and I’m grateful to her for that. I’ve often thought that the “gear-shift” between my paid work and the unpaid beautiful work of mothering feels like a rusty old manual car that I don’t quite understand how to drive. Lurch. Clunk. Add to that combination of work and parenting the imminent collapse of the world one was raised in, and there is a lot more grit than just clunky gears.
The thing is, the world isn’t changing: our illusions about “the west” are finally being pulled down, and with it, our perceptions of time.
